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MAZIE V. CARUTHERS 



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BY 



MAZIE V. CARUTHERS 




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PRINTED AT THE 

SIGN OF THE 

RAVEN 

1912 



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Copyrighted, 1912 
MAZIE V. CARUTHERS 



Permission is griven to reprint these poemt 

by 

Good HousekeepinK. New England 

Magazine, Town Topics, Munaey. 

Cosmopolitan, Lippincott's 

Vogue, Brooklyn Life. 

Collier's, Harper's 

E>verybody'8, Smith's 

and the 

New York Sun, Herald and Times. 






THE LEGEND OF THE HOLY THORN 



/gtAME Saint Joseph and his twelve 
l|L To the shores of Britain; 
^^Christmas Day it was, and chill 
On the crest of Weary- All Hill, 
(So the legend's written.) 



Welcome none the rude folk gave 

(Oh, the Day so dreary.) 
Blind their eyes, which could not see 
That an holy man was he. 

Homeless, faint and weary. 



So the good Saint thrust his staff 

Deep into the sod 

Crossed it thrice in blessing there 
Bade it bud and blossom fair 

To the praise of God. 



Thus, a miracle he wrought. 

Centuries ago, 
And since then on Christmas Morn, 
Every year the Holy Thorn 

Blossoms in the snow. 



s: 



THE GUEST AT FOLLY'S INN 



J5|UE road rune wide to Folly's Inn, 
IIL Through pleasant fields and fair. 
^^ And scores of travelers come that way 
To linger for a year or day— 
Assured of welcome there. 



Here precious things— love, honor, faith 

Are lost or diced away; 
Here, revel wearied, eyelids steep 
And close in passion's poppied sleep. 

Till comes the reckoning day! 



Then we who've lodged at Folly's Inn 

Would hide or steal away. 
In vain! The Porter waits for toll. 
His score each cowering, naked soul 

Must pay. God! how I pay! 



**-t> 



i 



THE MASKER 



AILY, I don my cap and bells 
For all the world to see. 
And play the role, which crucifies 
The very heart of me. 



But, if unshrinking, through the day 
I do my bitter task, 

Have I not earned the right, at night 
To lay aside my mask? 



E 



THE ROAD TO YESTERDAY 



HE world is fair, blue skies o'er head— 
My primrose path shows gay. 
And yet— betimes, I look behind 
And long with all my heart to find 
The road to Yesterday. 

Grass grown and faint the path may be; 
No signs to point the way 
Except a kiss, a memory, 
A sigh, a sprig of rosmary— 
These lead to Yesterday ! 



What worth To-morrow's unborn hopes. 
The fragrance of To-day, 
When once my heart's desire and need 
Is for the dim, sweet paths, that lead 
Me into Yesterday? 



TRANSIENTS 

APPINESS and I lived a long time together- 
Fair days, foul days, all kinds of weather. 
Watched we the moon rise, the sun reach ita 

tether- 
Happiness and I joyed a long while together! 

Came to my hearth-fire one named Sorrow. 
Oh, that bleak mom, with its somber to-morrow ! 
From the gray skies no hope could I borrow. 
Never less welcome a house-mate, than Sorrow ! 

Weary and long the days that we went. 
Sorrow, at length, gave place to Content, 
Since then, the cahn of the years we have spent! 
Sorrow and Joy gone— lingers Content. 



w 



BROCELIANDE 



HE borders of the ancient wood 

Shut out a far world's din. 
Like watchful sentinels, the trees 
Whisper the pass word to the breeze. 
That we may enter in. 



Within the deep heart of the wood 

Filter the pale sun beams. 
Velvet with moss, grown high with fern. 
The grreen aisle winds with many a tum- 

The very way of Dreams. 



Broods silence o'er that haunted wood. 

But, on the waving grass 
A shadow falls— to fade again. 
'Tis Merlin and his Vivien 

Who watch us as we pass. 



THE AFTERMATH 



S when the sunset's ruddy gold 
Grows dull, and, gathering fold on fold 
^Fades quite away,— 
Till but a glinunering light is seen. 
The palest wraith, of what has been 
A glorious day;— 

In sad content, my heart and I 

Resign us to our destiny— 

'Tis happier so! 

Let life's grey twilight shaddows fall. 

If tender memories crown all 

With afterglow! 






A TWO-EDGED SWORD 



AS not the shame that rankled worst 
When rumor's tongue proved true- 
That, I had borne courageously 
As loyal women do— 



What bowed me in the dust, to wring 
Each day my heart anew. 

Is knowing there has never been 
The man I thought was You— 



GOD'S ACRE 



^Hjt ARM spring-time rain, fall softly here, 
1J31 These graves are hallowed ground— 
'•^^ But shower most tenderly I pray. 
Upon one little mound. 



Sweet summer roses, shed your wealth 

Unstinted over all, 
But where a human bud lies dead 

Let whitest petals fall. 



Chill autumn winds, blow never wild 
Within this place of rest. 

But croon for him a lullabye 

Of dreams on mother's breast. 



Pure winter snow, float gently down 
On all the sleepers calm. 

But fold my baby warm and close 
As would his mother's arm. 



A MARCH DAY 



DULL grrey sky, — all desolate 
The fields, which seem to lie and wait 
^Some re-creating breath; 
The bare-boughed trees make moan and sigh. 
But sleeping nature lists the cry, 
"Awake, from winter's death !" 



A sudden, subtle change — a note 

Trills sweetly from a bird's brave throat. 

Of timid, patient cheer; 

And earth responsive, feels the throes 

Of new-bom life — awakes— and knows 

That spring, at last, is here. 



i 



BLIND 



HE world had been peopled with shadows 

A long and dreary time, 
Where I groped alone in the growing dusk, 

Till your dear hand grasped mine. 

And God gave me this respite; 

One brief, sweet hour of grace. 
That I might see and memorize 

The lineaments of your face! 

Then, darkness fell. What matter? 

My world was n'er so bright— 
For your tender eyes are my light by day. 

Your heart my rest at night! 



A BANKER OF SMILES 



JF I knew the place where the joys of life 
And its smiles, were bousrht and sold, 
I'd comer that market and buy them in. 
For your own to have and hold! 



You should be banker of all this wealth— 
On condition, that once in a while 

You would honor my check for an "I Love you' 
And a kiss, maybe, or a smile! 



» 



A LENTEN COMPROMISE 



O, lady of most mundane ways — 
Erstwhile,— turned saint for forty days. 
With mien austere! 
Religious-like your heart is bent 
On making me give up for Lent, 
Some pleasure dear? 



Amen. Thus I'll make strenuous trial 

To do my best at self denial. 

Since you petition. 

And forty days, I will eschew 

My greatest joy, the sight of you. 

On this condition; 

If I deny myself of you. 

Don't think the same return is due 

In compliment! 

Nay, here's my point, if you'll agree 

To give up every one, but me— 

I'll aye keep Lent! 



VALENTINE A LA MODE 



/||\H, dear disdainful lady mine 
l|^I want you for my Valentine. 
^-^ Behold here all my stock in trade; 
Much filthy lucre (Father made) 
One limousine, one touring car, 
A horse, at your disposal are, 
A house in town— and, every May 
We'll travel anjrwhere you say. 
No crown or title do I bring. 
But— money buys most anything. 
And all that any mortal man 
Could give you, that I swear I can ! 

And, counting up the final score. 
Remains one trifling item more ; 
(Though sadly out of date, I know) 
One faithful heart I give also. 



3 



OLD LOVE LETTERS 



CAST them wholesale to the flames 
And watch them writhe and turn. 

Like living, tortured thing's, they yield 
Their secrets as they bum; 



*'I love you" — in handwriting bold. 
But whether Jack's or Ned's, 

For life of me I cannot tell— 

Both were such young hot-heads! 



"My Darling's"— two or three, blaze out! 

"Devotedly your Jim" — 
Dear me! How very much in love 

I thought I was with him ! 



"I cannot live without you, Sweet!" — 
Now, who on earth wrote this? 

**I kiss your hands"— doubtless, because 
*Twas all I let him kiss! 



"My own!" Oh, love's monoply 

Is bold! "My heart you broke" — 

■'Dearest"— My lovers' sighs, like wraiths 
Have all gone up in smoke! 



Not all. Remain some letters which 
Shall have their pyre apart! 

The others meant just— episodes. 
But these — cost me my heart! 



WIRELESS MESSAGES 



SALK about wireless messages! 
They simply are not in it 
Witli those that lovers, far and near. 
Are sending: every minute. 



A message never fails to reach 
The heart for which 'tis meant — 
"I love you" breathed into the air 
Finds haven where 'tis sent. 



Two hearts that bea I as one know well 
The code and its vibrations, 
Nor miles of space can interfere 
When Cnpid sets up "stations"! 



@ 



THE LOVERS' ALMANAC 



HE almanac in which I peer 

For fair or rainy weather. 

Is Nancy's eyes, so darkly clear : 

Sometimes, with sudden wrath they glow, 

Storm signals flash, which plainly show 

That clouds are going to gather ; — 



Then,— when the storm has spent its force. 
And tears still rain with sorrow, — 
There's nothing to be done, of course. 
Except to try a cautious kiss. 
Which often lifts the heaviest mist. 
And brings a fairer morrow ! 



The mercury begins to rise. 
The sun shines through the rain— 
All glorious now, my Nancy's eyes! 
And clearing atmosphere prevails, 
No storm the perfect calm assails. 
My world is fair again! 



St 



A CHANGE OF HEART 

IME was, as Christmas Eve grew near, 
Of Santa and his twelve reindeer, 
A little lad, I sat and dreamed — 
A presence real the old Saint seemed. 
And on the Night of Night, I'd hark 
To hear his sleigh bells in the dark. 
And watch, for fear to miss his face 
When he came down the chimney place. 

But now, though day dreams throng my mind. 
No trace of Santa Glaus I find. 
My Christmas saint has changed. Instead 
Of jolly, wrinkled visage red. 
Behold a lady where she stands. 
The fairest maid in all the lands. 
Her thrall am I for weal or woe- 
Sweet Saint, whose crown is mistletoe. 



ai 



A RECIPE FOR VACATION 



AKE one suit case and partly fill 
With oldest clothes and stoutest shoes. 
But mix no frills nor anything 
Which lack of care may spoil or lose; 



Add an ang-ler's hooks and fishing rod. 
Then a book or two, for an idle mood, 
'Tis when at length on the grassy sod 
One's favorite author seems most good; 



Stock a fat lunch box, but never leave 

The savor of hunger's sauce behind. 

Add the spice of adventure, a love of romance. 

To a heart at rest with itself and mankind. 



Then up and away, far beyond the blue hills. 
While the bosky woods are yet sweet with dew, 
Where Nature* fs heart with her secrets thrills. 
And the sunshine filters one's being through! 



At the ebb of day pitch a leafy tent. 
Let peace settle down from the sheltering sky. 
And rest, in the haven of heart's content. 
While the drowsy pines croon a lullabye! 



AFTER THE OPERATION 

BLUR of light— faint sounds that fret 
My half —awakened brain. 
Returning memory, and then, 
The cruel power of pain. 

My crippled body craves once more 
In deep, drugged sleep to lie. 
So nearly spent, why may not I 
Be left in peace, to die? 

But, piercing through the lethargy 
Which would my will enthrall 
(Help, Galilean Mary-Heart!) 
My little children call! 



A HEART TO RENT 



heart to rent! None need apply 
Except a tenant who 
Will gnarantee to occupy 
The whole apartment through!! 



Four rooms there are of goodly size. 
And erstwhile there have been 
As many tenants lodging there 
As there is space within. 



Their applications flattered me. 
I hated to decline. 
So portioned each his nook; inside 
This roomy heart of mine. 



And now I find four occupants 
Too many are for me. 
Since peacefully they will not live — 
Each craves monopoly ! 



That's why I advertise: "Clean, swept. 
Four empty rooms for hire! " 
But no one need apply who will 
Not rent the flat entire!! 



SANCTUARY 

HEN I have lost the baby's ring and chewed up 

Sissy's doll. 
And chased the white Angora up a a tree. 
And rooted in the flower beds — my comon-sense 

suggests 
To lie in hiding, might be well for me! 

So, scenting future punishment, I scuttle up the 

stairs 
And seek a spot to hide my guilty head. 
For when my Master threatens, "Spare the stick 

and spoil the dog!" 
'Tis then I hustle underneath his bed! 

There's a nook 'way up against the wall, acces- 
sible to me. 

Which can't be reach or prodded by his cane. 

And here I crouch complacently, the while with 
growing wrath 

He pokes about to oust me— all in vain! 

He calls me — tempts me with a bone. I will not 

budge, not I ! 
*'Come, Pompey!" he commands with grudging 

smile 
But dogs whose brains are working well, heed no 

such siren voice; 
They know that rod's in pickle all the while! 

But when the kindly night has drawn a curtain 

o'er my crimes. 
My blessed Mistress seeks me out, instead. 
Then, with a humbly wagging tail, I dare at last, 

to leave 
My vantage point beneath the Master's bed ! 



OMAR ON SANTA GLAUS 



YSELF when young, precociously did mock 
At all the other babies on our block. 



'^'^Reviling tales of Santa Glaus as "fakes' 

Their cherished Ghristmas sentiments to shock ! 



Yea, more especially I loved to paint 
Our parents masquerading as the Saint, 
And when my playmates tearfully inquired: 
'AiNT there A Santy Gkuis?" I'd scoff:' There aint" ! 



But now, with kiddies to the count of five. 
In Santa's cause with all m-y skill I strive; 
That day my children find he's just their Dad, 
I'll be the very sorriest man alive! 



THE EVOLUTION OF THE GRANDMOTHER 



(§ 



H, where are the Grannies of long ago, 

The kind that we find in books. 

Who loved to sit and knit all day 

In the sheltered ingle-nooks? 

They were always garbed in softest grey. 

Wore their hair in soft, little curls. 

And had generous pockets of peppermints 

For good little boys anu girls! 



They read "Pilgrim's Progress" and Baxter's 

"Saint's Rest", 
And oh, 'twas variety rare 
To don a best cap and go out to tea. 
Or play at two-hand solitaire! 
This is at least what the story books say! 
Now where are those Grannies of Yesterday? 



All Grandmothers now refuse to grow grey. 

Or old, at the years they mock. 

Hair dressed la Pompadour, trim figure hooked 

Into a smart princess frock! 

Garbed a la chauffeuse, she runs her own car 

Young as the youngest hei*self. 

In fact, matrimony may snare her again, 

For Grandma wont stay on her shelf! 



Late.st French novels and problem plays serve 

To amuse her by day until dinner. 

Then, "Bridge" until morning, and at thai gay 

game 
Grandmama plays the hand of a winner! 
Then where are the Grannies of Yesterday? 
Nobody knows, they have vanished to stay! 



"Cultivate literature on a little oat-meaV* 

SIDNEY SMITH 



® 



A REMONSTRANCE 

AT -meal for daily bread! Great Scott! 

I most decidedly will not— 
Indeed, I'd never dare 

Invite the lovely Muses Nine 
To breakfast, luncheon and to dine 

On such abstemious fare! 

Nay — some vermouth and Gordon gin 
With bitters subtly dashed therein, 

I'd joyfully mix up. 

And having warmed us up a bit 

Down to good square meal we'd sit. 
And eke proceed to sup; 

On chicken gumbo a Creole, 

And something served en casserole, 
A salad and a sweet. 

Of brandy, just a tiny snack. 
To bum upon my coffee black; 

This were a menu meet! 

Then, lounging in my cushioned chair 
Puffing thick clouds of smoke in air 

In after-dinner quiet. 

Nary a doubt in me would lurk 

But that I shall do better work 
Than on an oat-meal diet. 



» 



THE ETERNAL FEMININE 

ING a song of Spinsters! 

My ]atch-key and my flat! 

No brutal rnan to say to me; 

"What have you done with that 

Last dollar, I donated you 
A month or so ago?' ' 

I love my independence, still- 
When bums the fire-light low, 

I feel quite lonesome and so small — 
Mabye I'll marry, after all! 

Sing a song of wedded wives! 

Three meals to plan per day, 
A cook, to keep and pacify, 

A husband to "obey"! 
He's very dear, of course, but when 

Both day and night, he's buried 
Up to his eyes, in Wall Street stocks, 

I'ts stupid to be married. 
And there are moments, when I'd fain 

Become a spinster once again!! 



A 



SPRING MILLINERY 



MAIDEN drew from its big white box 

Her last year's best straw bonnet. 

She twisted and turned it, but oh, dear me, ! 

It had "has been" writ upon it! 

So she vented her rage on the innocent 

thing. 
Poked holes in last year-old crown. 
And then, to complete its destruction quite. 
On its brim danced a vicious break -down! 



The sorry chapeau remained where it fell. 

For several days in a corner. 

When the maiden, for want of something 

to do 
Pulled it out, like a feminine J. Horner* 
She found, that because of the twists and 

the dents. 
The "creation", once perched on her pate. 
Presented a style very chic of its own. 
And now, wore a shape up-to date! 



From this, will be seen that Dame Fashion 

decrees 
No style is too queer, or bizarre. 
And 'tis comfort to know, when outlandish 

you look, 
Just that much more modish you are! 



AN UNSUNG HERO 

^JjfltHO comes here? A mass of wounds, 
t[1|| Uttering groans and awe-some sounds. 
Clothes naught else save rents galore — 
Broken nose a-weeping gore. 
Head tied up in bloody band. 
Lacking fingers on each hand — 
One eye closing, t'other hid 
By a strangely puffed up lid. 
Black and grimy, decked with scars— 
Who's this battered son of Mars? 

Listen to my piteous tale 

And a hero's fate bewail; 

He's the man who has been showing. 

In a manner vastly knowing. 

His young offspring, how to throw 

Fire-crackers — to make them go. 

How to make the cannon roar 

As they did in '64; 

Shooting with a pistol too. 

As "we boys us«i to do". 

His sad condition demonstrates 
What is the day he celebrates. 
In short, he shows us very plain. 
The glorious Fourth is here again! 



THE AMATEUR HOUSEKEEPER 






HAT shall I have for dinner? 

Oh, what SHALL I have to-day? 

Will a mutton ragout 

Be sufficient for two. 

Served up with an omelette souffle? 



How many vegetables? 
Shall it be salad or pease. 
Potatoes and beans 
Or parsnips and greens? 
Someone advise me, please ! 



What shall we eat? Each morning 

I plan for the day's supplies. 

But that night, to me steals 

The starved specter of meals. 

And— ''What for TO-MORROW?" it cries. 



Breakfast, luncheon and dinner! 

Three times a day without fail; 

I must cudgel my brains 

With scrupulous pains. 

How to fill up the pampered male. 

Mens* love cannot thrive on poor cooking, 
(At least, so their mothers agree) 
Thus, I beg on my knees 
Some kind housekeeper, please 
Give of your experience to me! 



THE WAY OF Al^{ AUTOMOBILE 



^|T'S up ID the hiils, then down with a swoop 
ij And over the plain like a bird! 
^^It's scorching and skidding around every curve 
Till most reckless instincts are stirred ! 



It*s a race with the wind to challenge its speed, 
A rush through vast spaces of air: 
Long draughts of rare ozone, a lifting cf hearts,— 
A flutter of wayward loose hair? 



It's a skimming of thankye'mums quick hs a flash. 
Going higher and higher and higher. 
Till just as we're reaching the top o' the world 
It's a Bzzz — TT and a punctured tireT 



AT BED TIME 



^HJtHEN' Mother goes off visiting 
TJIB I get along all right, 
■** And do not miss her very much 
Till bedtime comes, and night. 
Of course Dad does the best he can 

He hears me say my prayers. 
Tucks me in tight, and says "Sweet 
dreams". 
Before he goes down stairs. 



But Mother sits down on the bed. 

And plays the Sand Man games. 
She snoozles softly in my neck. 

And whispers honey-names. 
Fathers are nice, I wouldn't trade 

Mine off for any other. 
But when it's sleepy-time, I want 

To cuddle up to Mother. 



1 



THE SEVEN STAGES OF A TURKEY 

(a thanksgiving elegy) 

EHOLD me! My majestic mien. 

My plumage golden bronze and green. 

My scornful eye! 

A gobbler turkey. Ah, full soon 

An axe will strike my "crack 'o doom"— 

And I must die! 



Then next, when I am stark and dead — 
With feathers lax and drooping head. 
All done with living, 
'Tis now, my carcass plump will be 
Plucked, trussed, — and most uncomfortably 
Stuffed for Thanksgiving. 



Now see me on the serving table 
Flanked 'round with ev'ry vegetable — 
In all my glory ! 

The children choose (?) my legs and wings. 
They'd get them anyway, poor things. 
(The old, old story!) 



When dinner's over, though bereft 

Of half my flesh, still there is left 

Some good cold meat. 

And with an eye towards Friday's dinner. 

Cook says, — "I' slice this'ere up thinner. 

It must be eat! " 



A pot-pourri, not just the same— 
The festive board I grace again; 
The chopping knife . 

With here and there a seasoning dash 

Of spice— has made me into Hash! 1 ! 

Oh, such a life! 

Next, neatly garnished, as a stew, 
I make my farewell bow to you? 
Not quite ; though very weak with age, 
There's still one gamut more to run 
Before my pilgrimage is done- 
Soup's the last stage! 

At length, my bones are picked and bare, 

A skeleton! The winter air 

Chills me clear through! ^ 

I've served you long, you can t deny. 

Still there's no doubt, you're glad as 1 

To say ADIEU ! ! 




DEC 13 1912 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 





015 873 280 4 




